


Ballad of the Bride Surprise

by silverfoxflower



Series: Ballad of the Bride Surprise [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Arranged Marriage, Biting, Intercrural Sex, Kidnapping, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:40:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25390258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverfoxflower/pseuds/silverfoxflower
Summary: Written for the prompt:"Geralt saves another Alpha and the alpha offers him the Law of Surprise - Unbeknownst to the Alpha, his family had just bought/arranged a marriage with a noble Omega ... who is now Geralt's."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Ballad of the Bride Surprise [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961809
Comments: 224
Kudos: 1891
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo, Geralt x Jaskier





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Now that this is finally finished, I would like to devote a large and heartfelt thank you to [cephalopodvictorious](https://cephalopodvictorious.tumblr.com) and [lokibus](https://lokibus.tumblr.com), my amazing betas as well as all the readers that stuck it through to the end!
> 
> Also, a sweet cover I commissioned from [johix](https://johix.tumblr.com)!

“Chin up, chest out.” 

Jaskier stifled a groan as the laces to his stiff-necked jacket were tightened to the point of choking. “Is this all really necessary?” he wheezed, “Or are you just making sure I can’t talk during dinner?” 

“A little bit of one and the other.” Katarina said primly. She was a diminutive woman in all but personality, the stern lines around her mouth only softened by her fond expression. In Jaskier’s childhood, she had served as his nursemaid. Now, on the eve of his betrothal, she would play her final role as his valet and longest confidant. A tightness settled in Jaskier’s chest at that thought. 

Jaskier drew in a breath and held it to the bottom of his diaphragm, counting down from one hundred in his head until he started to feel light-headed. Perhaps, if he made himself faint at dinner, the Alpha he’d been promised to would find him sickly and unappealing and break off their betrothal. 

Katarina’s sharp poke to his abdomen made Jaskier sputter. “None of that now, chit.” She shook her head as she met his miserable expression in the mirror. “You look as though you were walking to your own execution, not a wedding feast.”

“It might as well be.” Jaskier muttered, lifting one wrist, then the other for Katarina to knot up the ruffles on his long sleeves. It seemed that this season’s fashion for Omegas was to remove any functionality from their limbs whatsoever. “Consigned to be some knot-head’s breeding machine. Withering away at some grubby little court at the corner of the world when I should be spreading my _talent_ , my _poetry_ -”

“Is this what they’re teaching the Omegas at Oxenfurt now?” 

The sharp tone of his Lady Mother sent a jolt of pure terror up Jaskier’s spine. Hampered by his stiff clothing, he turned and executed a clumsy bow. Katarina, already in a deep curtsy, shot Jaskier a pitying look from under her lashes. 

The Viscountess de Lettenhove was tall where Katarina was small, severe where she was soft. From his Alpha mother Jaskier had inherited his striking blue eyes, but for all else he must hold responsible the unknown Omega who carried him to birth. The Viscountess’ hair was a cold shade of blonde, her chin sharp and her features too fox-like to be traditionally beautiful. Behind her trailed her Beta consort Otirt, her second husband since Jaskier was born. And all of Jaskier’s life he had remained just that - a consort to the Viscountess rather than any kind of step-father. 

“Hello, Mother.” Jaskier straightened slowly, resentful of the instinctual wobble in his knees that all Omegas felt in the presence of a strong Alpha. 

“Your Lady’s graciousness is wasted on this one,” Otirt said, and Jaskier allowed himself a brief fantasy of smacking the oily grin right off of his Otirt’s face. “When my Linus presented, I had him bonded the next month and out of my court. No need for an _unbonded omega_ mucking his hormones about the place. Therein lies anarchy.” 

Jaskier hung his head, playing at humility while he clenched his fists so hard that his nails bit into the flesh of his palms. 

“Julian,” the Viscountess said loftily, ignoring Otirt, “let me have a look at you.” 

When Jaskier lifted his eyes, the Viscountess slid cool fingers under his chin and gripped it, tight enough to bruise, forcing him to meet her gaze. 

“I’ve allowed you your games and your songs,” her voice was low. Dangerous. “Perhaps for too long.” 

A drop of cold sweat slid down the back of Jaskier’s neck, and though he was the same height as his Lady Mother, he could not help but feel small and helpless, caught in her grasp, trapped by her disappointment. 

“Tonight you will take your rightful place at the side of your future Alpha. You will eat what he feeds you, you will smile at his jests,” her fingers tightened. “And most importantly, you will remain _silent_ as is appropriate for your sex.” The Viscountess continued, unblinking. “ _You will not shame the House of de Lettenhoves._ ”

“Again,” Otirt muttered, quietly enough for only Jaskier to hear. 

“Do I make myself clear?” 

Jaskier nodded, not knowing if the thickness in his throat was because of his over-laced collar or sheer terror.

“Good.” the Viscountess released her grip, and, as an afterthought, graced Jaskier with a cool pat on the cheek. “The carriage has been readied.” She turned to Katarina, speaking to the air above her head. “Change him into his travelling clothes and be ready in an hour.” 

Jaskier resisted rubbing at his chin, bowing deeply again as the Viscountess swept out of the room, Otirt toddling behind her like a large egg that had sprouted legs. 

Katarina was silent as she put the finishing touches on Jaskier’s formal suit, kindly ignoring the brightness in his eyes as she polished the pearl buttons on his stiff grey jacket.

“There, there.” she said, pressing a warm hand to Jaskier’s shoulder. “This day was to come eventually. It is the lot of all of us …” 

_Omegas_ , Jaskier thought hatefully. A simple quirk of biology, a weakness once a month - nay, thrice a year were he allowed the potions he had at Oxenfurt - and for what? 

_You will not shame the House of de Lettenhoves,_ his Lady Mother had commanded.

Well, they would see about that. 

\--

Geralt reached for the survivor thrashing weakly in the mud just a moment before he saw the glowing eyes in the darkness beyond him. 

Hurriedly making the sign of Aard, Geralt threw himself to the side just as the Endrega leapt and fell, its legs feverishly pinwheeling in the air. It was the opening Geralt needed to strike, plunging his silver blade into the soft belly between the Endrega’s thick plates of armor. The monster released a terrifying screech as it died, thrashing its tail in a last fit of spite. Geralt had but a second to catch his breath before the rippling in the water around his feet warned that more were coming. 

“Roach!” he shouted, hauling the coughing, sputtering body over his shoulder. It was the only man of the dozen-strong hunting party Geralt had found alive, the clumsily destroyed Endrega nest and bloody body parts littering the swamp telling the rest of the story. Geralt grabbed Roach’s reins and hauled himself up as Endrega drones noisily dragged themselves across the muck and dropped like ripe fruit from the trees around them. The quickly-growing darkness made them harder to spot among the tall grass, and only Geralt’s keen hearing enabled him to quickly fend off a bite meant for Roach’s flank. 

Roach snorted as Geralt yanked on her head around, making a tight turn and galloping towards the direction of the setting sun with a horde of Endregas close behind. The body of the knight, slung over Roach’s back like a sack of muddy potatoes, almost fell off when an Endrega landed right on top of Geralt, nearly dragging them all into the water before Geralt flung it off with a curse and a sloppy sign of Quen. 

Endregas lagged behind them one by one as Geralt fled their territory. Eventually, the tree line thinned, and Geralt could see the lip of a wide road ahead. A coach was noisily barreling towards them. “Stop! Help!” Gerlalt shouted to it, his words carried away by the wind. Though the coachman surely saw Roach and her riders, he did not pause, passing by so close that Geralt could catch a glimpse of the curtain being twitched away and the white half-moon of a face peering out. 

“It’s okay,” Geralt put a hand on Roach’s neck and patted her as he slowed them to a walk, hearing her exertion. “I wouldn’t stop for me either.” 

As the last of the rumbling from the carriage disappeared into the distance, Geralt closed his eyes and focused his hearing. Around them was only silence, broken by the rustles of night creatures scurrying in the underbrush. They were safe, at least for now. 

Behind him, the bloody man began to stir.

\--

Jaskier was allowed to ride in a separate carriage from the Viscountess and her husband, which was the only reason he had, at least thus far, managed to cling to sanity. He was also able to smuggle his lute aboard the coach by hiding it under his cloak. The ride to Petrelsteyn was bumpy enough that he didn’t dare pluck the strings, but merely having it close was comforting. 

_”In the shadow of the forest / the highwayman awaits / he’ll snatch me from my problems / and take me to my fate,”_ Jaskier pressed the pen to his bottom lip, considering. “He’ll … take me- take me from the danger?” 

“How would a highwayman take you away from danger?” Katarina asked, her needlework pin-small and precise despite the lurching of the carriage. 

“'Problems' it is then.” Jaskier made a note in his book.

Katarina smiled, shaking her head. “Always with your head in the clouds. Hasn’t changed since you were a boy.” 

“Yeah, well.” Jaskier said dryly, “let's hope Sir What’s-his-beard likes a drunk and degenerate poet with more rhymes than sense.” He flipped his notebook’s pages in a flurry. “Actually … _he takes me from my senses-_ ”

“So fatalistic,” Katarina said. “You haven’t even met this Sir Dedrogo.” 

“I did,” Jaskier said darkly, “I visited, as a child.” His family had been invited to court by his cousin, and Jaskier had been quickly shooed away to play with the other children as the adults drank to embarrassment and carried on indiscrete intrigues. The then adolescent prince of Kerack had a bevy of knightlings he played war with, all of them sweaty, bullish alphas who had little kindness to spare for a gangly child in starched white clothing. It was well before Jaskier had presented, when he still had some forlorn hope of becoming an Alpha like his mother when he grew up. Trying to keep up with the knightlings - and the boyish torture they had subjected him to - absolved him of that desire entirely. 

“That was near fifteen years ago!” 

“If there’s anything I’m gifted at, it’s holding grudges,” Jaskier said.

Katarina laughed shortly. “And they say poets are romantics.” 

“I fall in love all the time.” Jaskier said grandly. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid this wedding will spoil.” 

“You of all people should know that being married doesn’t necessarily spoil the chance of enjoying new love,” Katarina said dryly. “But it could be that this knight is your destined bondmate.”

“Dear God I hope not.” Jaskier made an anguished face, and Katarina shook her head, rolling her eyes. 

For a moment, they settled into a companionable silence, punctuated by the rocking of the carriage. Jaskier found himself picking at the sleeve of his travelling suit and pulling at his itchy lace collar though it was not nearly as tight as that of his betrothal outfit. Once he was bonded, claimed by an Alpha’s teeth on his nape, Jaskier would be able to wear shirts that didn’t choke him half to death. Until then … 

“Is that what you and Talda have? A destined bond?” Jaskier asked finally. When he was younger he had hoped that Katarina had been his Omega carrier, since she had been the only nurturing presence in the entirety of the life he’d spent at the de Lettenhove estate. But seeing her with her wife, it was difficult to imagine they had not been in love since they met as village children. 

Katarina glanced up, her eyes shadowed in the swinging lamplight. “Talda is a Beta … you know that is not possible.” Just like it wasn’t possible for them to have children, something Jaskier knew was a great regret.

“If a life without a bond is not a life without love, then perhaps an Omega can be just as happy unbonded.” 

Katarina gave him a sharp look. For all that she had bucked tradition to marry Talda, her first partner had been an Alpha, and it was only their death that had given Katarina the freedom to remarry a Beta. “You’d better not talk that way around your Lady Mother.” She said starchly, just as the carriage began to slow.

Petrelsteyn Castle crouched like a dark, squat toad against the sky, bordered on one side by the crashing waves of the ocean, and on the other by acres of salt marsh, where scraggly, crooked trees and screeching insects appeared the only signs of life. 

They pulled up to the gate as the lavender twilight deepened into dusk and were met outside the castle by a yawning skeleton crew of guards and servants, a reception that sent the Viscountess into a chilly fury. Jaskier felt himself sinking into a helpless despair as he looked around.

Home sweet home. 

\--

The bloodied survivor drifted in and out of consciousness as Geralt made a small fire, struggling to get it to do little more than sputter on the damp grass. When Geralt propped him up against the tree and poured some water in his mouth, he was able to swallow without help. That was promising. 

“I’d prefer wine.” the man murmured, and turned away to cough. 

“With the amount you’re spilling down your front, that would be a waste.” Geralt said, and the man smiled. 

“I’m Sir Dedrogo of Kerack,” he introduced himself. “You saved my life.” 

“Not yet,” Geralt replied, returning to the other side of the fire. “I bandaged up that side wound, but you need a healer.” 

Dedrogo drew in a few labored breaths, his lungs making worryingly dry noises. A spot of blood seeped through the bandage. “I must repay you.”

“Coin.” Geralt said dryly. “That’s the usual manner.” 

“So what I’ve heard of Witchers is true.” Dedrogo’s smile was weak, “Unfortunately for the both of us, I’m but an unlanded knight and lost all I owned at the card tables last night.” 

_I know,_ Geralt thought with irritation. He’d seen the band of rowdy village Alphas at the tavern a few nights ago, pawing at the barmaids and bragging loudly about the hunting party they’d gathered under the banner of Sir Dedrogo to slay the beast in the swamp that had been devouring local road workers. Local gossip had turned to Sir Dedrogo’s courtship of the King’s only Omega daughter, the romance of a penniless knight and a princess, and his leading this hunt as a play for her father’s favor. 

Cynically, Geralt thought the more accurate description was of a knight who led a dozen to their deaths for the want of a dowry. 

“... it is upon my honor to do so.” Dedrogo was saying, even as he struggled to keep his eyes from falling shut. “My only choice is to bequeath upon you the Law of Surprise …”

Geralt snorted, adding fodder to the fire. “I have no use for the new pup or the mistress’s love letter you have awaiting you at home.”

But when he looked up, Dedrogo was slumped over, breathing shallowly. 

\--

“A _hunting party_?” the Viscountess’ voice carried to the end of the hall, where Jaskier happily plucked on his lute by the fire. 

“The Viscountess will come smack that grin off your face if she sees you,” Katarina said quietly. “It’s ghastly, arriving to a - a missing bridegroom.” 

“Perhaps dead.” Jaskier said cheerfully, earning a glare from Katarina. “Not that I … want an innocent Alpha dead. Perhaps impotent? Failure to bond is cause for annulment-” He quickly stuffed his smile into his mouth as his mother passed, talking loudly to a small retinue of nobles around her.

The remnants of a feast littered the banquet table, greasy plates of sweetmeat and half-empty tankards of ale scattered about unattended. The maudlin atmosphere had spoiled the Viscountess’ arrival, as anyone had yet to hear from Sir Dedrogo and the three other knights who had left with a party of townsmen for the Cidarian border a fortnight ago. They were to hunt for a beast that had been interrupting construction on an important thoroughfare. Court conspiracies were rife on whether the entire plot was an assassination cooked up by the Cidarians, and whether Kerack should answer with a show of aggression. 

Apparently, the youngest princess was inconsolable. 

Outside, it started to storm - heavy rain and loud, violent wind accompanied by the rumble of thunder. Jaskier folded his legs under him delicately, drawing closer to the fire as he grinned at the handsome Beta servant who bent to refill his goblet of wine. “ _Oh his kiss was liquid fire/he took me by the hand/his knot was my desire/as big as my-”_

_”Jaskier_ ”, Katarina hissed, as the palace door opened with a bang. 

A bright flash of lightning lit the hall, framing the picture of an Alpha in black with shock-white hair, holding Jaskier’s dying bridegroom. 

\--

_If you value your head, you’ll value our hospitality_ Prince Egmund of Kerack had said with poorly-hidden hostility, and Geralt found himself more or less trapped in the great hall. Around him, a smattering of horrified nobles and servants whispered amongst themselves as Geralt sat down heavily at the table and began tearing into a plate of cold meat with his fingers, washing it down with leftover ale.

Geralt smelled him before he saw him - perfume and powders poorly masking the scent of an Omega on the brink of his heat.

“White hair … big, dark loner with … two scary, scary looking swords,” the Omega, tousled and youthful, slid into the seat next to Geralt, bumping his lute against the table in his eagerness. “ I know who you are.” 

Geralt turned his head away, almost pushing to leave before he remembered that he was, upon the pain of death, forbidden from doing so. Witchers, though technically Alphas, were not supposed to be capable of Rut. Omegas smelled good to Geralt, but they had never made his heart rate increase, or his skin feel hot under his collar. 

Like this one did. 

“You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia!” 

A few of the guests started to mutter at this announcement, and Geralt pressed his lips together in a grimace. No good deed unpunished, indeed. Next time he’d leave the lovesick, land-grubbing knight to his own fate. 

“Amazing.” the Omega smiled, pushing into Geralt’s space in a manner Geralt would have categorized as seductive, but for the clumsiness of it. He took out a notebook. “I’ve always thought that real adventures would make better songs and you, Sir, smell chock-full of them,” he wrinkled his nose. “amongst other things.” 

“It’s onion.” Geralt said, standing from his seat and leaving his unwanted admirer behind. The past weeks had been hard and cold. He'd been too low on coin for to visit the local brothels. That was the only reason he was responding so uncharacteristically to this Omega's scent.

He’d tumble a whore, and remember why Omegas weren’t for Witchers to bed. 

“Geralt of Rivia!” A courtier barked, thankfully saving him from further interaction. Geralt allowed himself to be led out of the hall by a trio of soldiers and shown to Sir Dedrogo’s room. 

Inside, the knight was sleeping, a deep, healing sleep that did little to comfort the Omega in a white dress weeping over his hand. In the corner, a very disgruntled-looking King Belohun of Kerack glared at Geralt as he entered. 

“Sir Dedrogo confirmed your tale, Witcher,” the King said, narrowing his eyes. “He also said you enacted the Law of Surprise.”

“He offered; I did not accept,” Geralt said. “I take debt in coin only.” 

The King drew himself up to a not-unimpressive height. “Unless you wish to impune the honor of a knight of Kerack by calling him a liar, you will take your bride and go.” 

“Happy to.” Geralt said, before the words fully registered. “My what?” 

“Your bride of surprise. The betrothal I arranged for Sir Dedrogo after he left.”


	2. Chapter 2

“You should be medicated,” was the first thing that Geralt said to Jaskier when they met again in the hall outside Sir Dedrogo’s room. “You reek of heat.” 

“Is that any way to speak to your blushing bride?” Jaskier asked Geralt, an edge of hysteria to his voice. Yes, he had approached Geralt previously, hoping for a flirt and a few stories. Yes, Jaskier was hilariously attracted to him, and perhaps it was due to his unmedicated heat as Geralt had just so rudely pointed out. 

But being claimed as a _Bride of Surprise_ -

“What you allow your Omega is entirely up to you,” a courtier said disapprovingly. 

“This is _ridiculous_ ,” the Viscountess hissed. “You would have someone of - of _our_ family bonded to a …” Words failed her entirely at this point as she directed an expression of utter loathing at Geralt, and Jaskier would never learn whether his mother objected most to Geralt’s poverty, his Witcher-ness or his current odor. 

“It is the law.” the courtier said firmly, and the Viscountess released her grip on Jaskier’s arm, backing away. 

Jaskier wanted to plead, to bitterly decry the impotence of her Alpha position in the one moment when it would matter. But when his mother could not even meet his eyes Jaskier knew that it would be for nothing. 

“Come then, the both of you.” A gruff guard pushed Jaskier into Geralt’s chest, hurrying them towards the door. The lute jangled discordantly as Geralt caught him, and immediately held him away at arm’s length. 

“Wait, I-” They were ushered out as Jaskier yelled for his luggage, which no one seemed in any particular hurry to fetch for him. Katarina managed to hand Jaskier his cloak over a guard’s shoulder as he and Geralt were prodded away. 

Jaskier turned back half a dozen times on the path down the cliff, looking for her silhouette against the hall door. 

And so it was that Jaskier found himself in the cold darkness, exiled from his own family, in the partnership of only a Witcher and his horse. At least it had stopped raining, though the wind was no less violent, whipping the tall grasses in a frenzy. Jaskier pulled up his hood and shivered under his cloak. 

Geralt mounted his horse and began riding it down the road.

“Mind if I hop up too?” Jaskier asked, trotting to keep pace in his form-over-function boots. “It’s just that, you know, I’m not really wearing the right kind of footwear.”

“Don’t touch Roach,” Geralt said coldly, but he slowed their pace. 

They walked in silence for a while, Jaskier sneaking peeks of Geralt from underneath his hood. Did the man _have_ more than the one expression? “What are we to do now?” 

“There’s an inn in two hours.” 

“Right. But more big-picture,” Jaskier wriggled his eyebrows when Geralt looked at him. “The _bonding_?” 

And the _bond-mating_? he thought feverishly. 

“No one said anything about bonding,” Geralt said shortly. “I’m not bonding you.” 

“Not going to make an honest man out of me or not going to knot-” 

Geralt stiffened, forcing the words through his teeth. “Not. Going. To. Bond.”

“...well now I’m just starting to take offense,” Jaskier replied weakly. “Is it my hair? I can get better hair.” 

“Sorry to dash your hopes.” Geralt said dryly. “You seemed very disappointed about your broken engagement.” 

“I mean, _I’m_ happy about it, but destiny has a way of being a bitch about these things.” Jaskier frowned as cold water began seeping into his boots. 

“Destiny can fuck off,” Geralt grunted. 

\--

Geralt was disappointed that Jaskier came with no coin, since that forced them to share a bed that night, apparently the first of many such nights to come since Jaskier had proven remarkably skillful in badgering Geralt into escort duty to Oxenfurt.

Jaskier’s heat-scent had only grown stronger, so much so that Geralt had been forced to keep space between them on the road in order to fill his lungs with brackish salt-air. When they arrived at the dingy inn far, past decent hours, the Alpha innkeeper had leered at Jaskier until Geralt’s quiet growl warned him off. Jaskier, while not oblivious, remained remarkably unconcerned.

And this at the bud of heat, when it was still three days before the pheromones would peak. 

“Tomorrow morning you’re going to the apothecary,” Geralt growled, pushing open the door to their room. 

“No opposition there,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “Though I wonder how we’ll pay for that, since you gave your last coin for the room and I’m suddenly a church mouse in fancy clothing. Ah!” He snapped his fingers, grinning. “I shall perform in the town square. My legend shall not be confined to Oxenfurt. I’ve been work-shopping this new song of mine-” 

“I sleep in silence _only_ ,” Geralt growled, rolling out his bedroll on the floor next to the bed. 

“But this bed’s big enough for two,” Jaskier said, watching Geralt settle down in front of the dying fireplace. “Well, two with moderate intimacy. This is the cheapest room here, after all.” 

“Goodnight,” Geralt rolled to face away from Jaskier, closing his eyes and thinking deeply about Bloedzuiger guts, ghoul brains, anything but the soft, aroused Omega pulling off his clothes and sliding into the bed behind him. 

It was times like these when Geralt cursed his Witcher senses, his ability to hear every brush of cloth against bare skin, Jaskier taking a long pull from his wineskin and the wet noises he made while swallowing. 

Then, unexpectedly, the soft sounds of tuning and a strum of fingertips over the lute. The first chords of a lullaby filled the room, Jaskier’s voice soft and enchanting. The song was about lovers who ran about in the stars. Or perhaps they were star-crossed. Before he could put his finger on it, Geralt drifted into sleep. 

That night, Geralt dreamt of Jaskier under his hands, sweat-slick and moaning as he was fucked into the mattress, begging for Geralt to _knot_ -

Geralt awoke hard, panting, with a hand tight around his cock, strangling his half-filled knot. In the bed, Jaskier rolled over, snuffling in his sleep. 

\--

“You look like shit,” Jaskier said the next morning, when Geralt plodded downstairs to the tavern. Geralt just glared at him and took a seat, grabbing an ale from a barmaid’s tray. 

“How’s the busking coming along?” Geralt forced down the mouthful of greasy ale, following it with a bite of bread from Jaskier’s plate.

“I already have a few fans,” Jaskier winked at someone who was across the room, and Geralt turned to see the barmaid pinken, and the innkeeper, either her mate or kin, take angry notice. 

“Thanks for breakfast,” Geralt said, wiping his mouth as he stood, stopped by Jaskier’s hand on his arm. 

“Lunch, actually, and I put it on your tab,” Jaskier shrugged helplessly. “This morning’s set didn’t go over the way I was hoping, so I was thinking …” Geralt grunted and started walking to the door, Jaskier trailing after. “Come to the square and hear me perform! I need constructive criticism!” 

The harsh sun of mid-afternoon made Geralt feel grubby and undeserving of Jaskier’s hopeful expression. It wasn’t Jaskier’s fault he smelled good. And it most likely wasn’t his fault he wasn’t medicated either, given the traditionalist manner of his family. 

The Alpha in Geralt, the one who had been bouncing Jaskier on his cock all dream long, growled at the thought of Jaskier alone in the middle of Kerack, subject to other Alphas of all intentions. And Betas. And Omegas. 

“Doesn’t look like there’s anything better to do,” Geralt said gruffly. 

Jaskier laughed. “You’ll _love_ the third song, it’s a dramatization of you saving Sir Dedrogo from the Beast of the Swamp … ” 

\--

It was nearly nightfall when they began heading back towards the inn. As the cool breeze blew away the day’s humidity, Geralt felt the tightness in his lungs ease. He drew in a deep breath and noticed that Jaskier’s pheromones had retreated. Now he smelled merely of sweat and apples, the latter scent coming from the rotten ones thrown at him during his performance. Jaskier had evidently found his way to the apothecary sometime that morning. 

“They don’t exist,” Geralt said, breaking the silence. 

“What don’t exist?” Jaskier asked, counting the small handful of coins clinking in his cap. 

“The creatures in your song,” Geralt said. Now that he wasn’t under the influence of the pheromones anymore, he could more clearly assess that his companion was, unfortunately, still quite attractive. Though perhaps not bad company, between all the chattering. “That’s not what happened.” 

“You were so stingy with the details,” Jaskier said, “Can’t blame me for extrapolating. Also,” he added, “There are no good rhymes for Endrega.” 

Geralt grunted. 

“I’m working on a bride surprise piece, perhaps, _Ballad of the Bride Surprise_. Catchy? Based on true events-”

“Don’t,” Geralt said, the hint of a growl beneath his words. 

Jaskier scowled. “First of all, the Alpha command business is unnecessary and insulting. Let’s nip that in the bud right now. Second of all-” 

“Don’t talk about this,” Geralt said, walking faster as if to distance himself from Jaskier. “Don’t sing about it either. You’re _not_ the bond-mate of a Witcher.” 

“I can still take offense at that, right?” Jaskier jogged to catch up. “I know I’m not your type but must you target my ego so? It bruises easily.” 

“It’s for your benefit.” Geralt muttered under his breath, but Jaskier heard it anyway and laughed. 

“Well yes, I know that tying me down in holy matrimony and robbing the world of all the love I have to give _would_ be a crime, but there’s no need to deny thy heart, Geralt. There’s enough of Jaskier to go around ...”


	3. Chapter 3

It took a few days' travel to reach Oxenfurt, but soon the familiar towers of his former academy broke over the horizon, sending a jolt of nostalgia through Jaskier’s heart. Here he had written his first song, lost his virginity, and met his once and future nemesis — incidentally, all on the same night. 

Jaskier had once thought that he would stay here his entire life, singing, drinking, and fucking his way through the faculty roster. Any distraction was welcome, as long as he could escape the expectations of his sex, his family. 

_And I have_. He should feel elated. 

So why didn’t he?

“We should make camp for the night.” Jaskier said suddenly, and Geralt threw him a strange look. 

“We’ll reach the gates before dark.” 

“Yes, well—” Jaskier floundered, plucking at the collar of his shirt. He had taken to wearing his tunics scandalously unlaced, enjoying in equal measures the lack of pressure on his throat and flaunting his unbitten nape as a tease to one and all Alphas. “What if the Law of Surprise didn’t mean for me to be your bride?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I could be your barker,” Jaskier said, excitement flushing his cheeks as the idea came to him. “Spreading tales of the great Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of—”

“I wouldn’t finish that thought.” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, “You and your songs can stay at Oxenfurt. I have no need for untrained hands.”

“Is it because I’m an Omega?”

“It’s because you’re a _bard_.” Geralt said pointedly. 

“While many in my occupation would choose the path of comfort and safety — and while I may have at one point,” Jaskier said grandly. “I confess that after experiencing such an adventurous few days ...” 

“You were _just_ complaining about sleeping outside—.” 

“I found myself longing for … _death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak_.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes, but in the manner which signaled resignation to Jaskier’s whim. “There’s monsters and money.” Geralt said finally. “Rarely, there’s both.” 

——

Three months passed swiftly. Winter in Redania was uncharacteristically mild, but Jaskier made enough coin with his performances to often keep them with a roof over their heads and with occasional luxuries such as bathing. Geralt contributed when he could, which was little, considering the rather passionate whoring habit the man had. Jaskier took offense — but only insofar that Geralt had not invited him the first time around. 

Once, at a brothel, their eyes fell on the same ginger-haired Beta and Jaskier had had a colorful daydream of sharing her between them, licking her cunt while Geralt entered him from behind—

Geralt had hurriedly walked off with another whore. 

Jaskier’s songs were gaining in popularity, and improving in quality. He began noticing his ballads being copied by imposters on the street before he even stepped foot in a new city. The only song that vexed him unendingly was _The Highwayman_ , or, as he was playing around retitling it to, _My Highwayman_. It had mutated from a thrilling sexual fantasy into something … more sentimental. One week the lyrics would describe lovers mourning the distance between their bodies, the next week of an admirer, secret to the object of his affection. 

Jaskier felt frustrated every time he flipped through his notebook and saw line after belabored line crossed out and re-written.

Whenever they found themselves in civilization, Jaskier would hunt down a letter—carrier and bade them to send word to Katarina, always enclosing a few pennies for her to pay for someone to read it to her. A few times, word found its way back. Katarina was doing well and enjoying her well-deserved retirement with her wife. Though Jaskier’s mother had not asked after him, Katarina expressed that she pained at his absence (a charitable interpretation, Jaskier thought). Sir Dedrogo had eloped with the Princess of Kerack, scandalizing everyone.

In the bloom of spring, Jaskier fell once more into heat. 

“Alas, even the potions cannot delay it forever,” he explained to Geralt, who had been scowling and sniffing at him all morning, just short of accusing Jaskier of lapsing with his medication. They were on the road south, winding through fields dotted with wildflowers. “And I’ve found that the fewer heats an Omega experiences, the more intense each one is.” 

Geralt looked uncomfortable, the way he always did when Jaskier spoke so frankly about his anatomy. 

“I was,” Jaskier swallowed, trying to sound casual as if his heart was not beating hard in his chest. “not _expecting_ , but perhaps hoping … You know, I’m not the biggest fan of laying with Alphas, but I thought that since we know each other so well—” 

“No,” Geralt said shortly. 

“Sure,” Jaskier said hurriedly. “Yeah. Right. It’s for the best that we don’t risk ruining such a lovely friendship and fruitful business partnership with what would probably just be frivolous … amazing ... unforgettable sex—” 

_”Jaskier._ ” Geralt growled, stopping so abruptly that Jaskier ran into him. Twisting around, he grabbed Jaskier’s arms. “If I fuck you, _I will knot you and bite you_.” He shoved Jaskier away from himself with a snarl. “I won’t be able to control myself.” 

Jaskier’s heart beat heavily in his chest as Geralt turned and stalked away. He’d fantasized about it, of course, Geralt fucking him with that thick alpha cock he’d been unable to resist peeking at when they bathed together, bringing him to the brink until Jaskier was _begging_ him for his knot, and he would push in sharply and—

Fuck, all of his daydreams ended with Geralt knotting him. Every single time. 

Jaskier ran his hand over the back of his neck, biting his lip.

Silently, they continued walking, Jaskier practically sprinting to keep up with Geralt’s long strides now. He was afraid that any minute Geralt would just jump on Roach and just leave him in the middle of the road, alone and horny. 

“Well, no need to worry about me.” Jaskier called, trying to sound more cheerful than he felt. “I’ve plenty of other options in Rinde. Like an old flame who’s always happy for another roll in the hay, ever since he got married—” 

“Do what you will,” Geralt said tightly. “I’ll find myself elsewhere for a while.” 

——

A while turned out to be two weeks, and elsewhere turned out to be Coppertown, contracted to rid the dwarves of a wraith that had taken to haunting their mining operation. 

Philip was unfortunately duller than Jaskier had remembered, and a great deal flabbier as well. Silently groaning at the mistakes of his youth, Jaskier was forced to excuse himself from Philip’s aggressive rut pheromones with an imaginative excuse. Luckily, he managed to duck out of the affair as well as a hefty dinner bill. 

However, that did mean spending ten long, agonizing days _unfulfilled_ , tossing and turning in his inn bed, fucking himself with toys of glass and wood as the persistent Alpha barmaid kept banging on the door sweetly offering her services. 

Jaskier hadn’t been lying when he told Geralt that he usually avoided laying with Alphas. This made him unusual among Omegas, who tended to gravitate towards Alpha pheromones even outside of their heats. And just as potions existed for the convenience of lessening heats and controlling conception, there were certain _devices_ available to prevent knotting — and tying — during sex, allowing bohemian and adulterer Omegas free to fuck through their heat without the impending threat of _bonding_.

But Jaskier could never tolerate the possessiveness of Alphas, their entitlement and demands for exclusivity after one tumble, the way they exploited the pheromones that allowed them to command Omegas. Outside of his heats, Jaskier avoided them like the plague.

Except Geralt, of course. 

Heat made him honest. When he closed his eyes he could think of nothing but the sly, soft smiles that so rarely slid across Geralt’s face. His hands, gentle as he brushed Roach down after a long ride. The spark of desire that Jaskier felt whenever their shoulders or arms happened to brush. 

Jaskier found himself reaching again and again to the back of his neck, scoring it with his nails as he screwed the wooden dildo into his hole, its knot cleverly carved from the knot of the tree and sanded smooth. In his mind it was Geralt’s hot mouth on his nape, popping his knot deep in Jaskier’s ass as he bit down, sudden and deep. 

That night, Jaskier woke from his frenzy and furiously finished the last stanzas of _My Highwayman_ , his fingers slick with his own juices. 

——

Jaskier still smelled of heat when Geralt limped back from his hunt. It was a stale heat-scent, though, soured like overripe fruit. Unfulfilled. 

Geralt ignored the twist of relief in his gut.


	4. Chapter 4

They arrived in Beauclair when the turn of seasons ripened once more to autumn, just as the city opened to the rest of the country for the Festival of the Vat. 

“—a rite of _fertility_ and _bounty_ which celebrates not just the warm turn of seasons but the fruitful mating of a bonded Alpha-Omega pair, brought together by Destiny—” 

“The more you talk of it, the less appealing it sounds,” Geralt said, pulling Roach away from lipping at an apple cart. Around them, villagers bustled about setting up stands and decorations. Colorful flags were raised to flap in the breeze as laughter and music spilled from every tavern. On the air was the scent of meat pies and sweet grapes, spices and spilt wine. 

“Say, Geralt.” Jaskier strummed his lute at a passing woman, who giggled behind her hand. “Do you prefer the _Beast of Beauclair_ or the _Terror of Toussaint_? Tonight’s fair should be perfect for debuting the newest epic.” 

“Neither,” Geralt said, “It was a vampire.” 

“Yes, well the _Bloodsucker of Beauclair_ sort of gives away the ending.” 

Geralt grunted, feeling trapped in a cloud of dark annoyance amidst the colorful revelers. He had just spent several nights in the catacombs, sleeping in short, twitchy bursts, surviving on adrenaline and the last of his potions. The sun was too bright, the music too loud, and Jaskier smelled once more of impending heat — a bright, honey-sweet smell that had every other Alpha eyeing him with interest and Geralt’s hackles permanently raised.

Geralt had no claim to Jaskier, but his body had yet to accept that. 

“I’ll meet up with you later, have some business to take care of in town,” Jaskier said, purchasing a jam-filled tart from a grubby-faced boy carrying a basket of pastries. 

“Business or pleasure?” Gerald couldn’t stop himself from asking.

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier rolled his eyes, taking an inelegant bite of tart and speaking through the crumbs flying out of his mouth. “Nevermind that I’ve been practically celibate these days. Well, the emphasis on _practically_. The spirit may be strong, but the flesh is weak and sometimes lonely. Ah.” He raised his index finger, “After my finale performance in the Mercantile Theatre round I shall introduce you to the gardens of Paradise upon this earth, a brothel like none other, my friend. I discovered this through hard work and dedicated research whilst you were layabouting in the catacombs.” Jaskier winked and when Geralt opened his mouth to object, stuffed the rest of the jam tart between his teeth. “Imagine, that is only the beginning of the delicacies you may savor.” He licked a smear of jam off of his thumb with a cheeky smile before he turned away. 

Geralt chewed the tart as he watched Jaskier depart, winding through the celebrants. Though the crust was delicate and the jam sweet, it was like sawdust in his mouth. 

“Come along, Roach,” Geralt said, and Roach nickered into his hair, a long-suffering witness to Geralt’s increasing sexual frustration over the past year. 

_I can keep him if I keep my distance,_ Geralt had told himself over and over, pushing apart their bedrolls though the night was cold and fire sputtering, spending his last coin on a bawd so he could avoid crawling into Jaskier’s warm inn bed. Policing his responses tightly, lest he give away too much. 

Laughable, the Law of Surprise. Rewarding a Witcher with something he did not want, could not have. 

The directions Jaskier had given him to their inn took Geralt away from the city center and towards a grimier part of town. Here, the crowds thinned, and darkness cloaked the alleyways. Occasional passerbys walked fast and purposefully, clutching their purses close and keeping their heads down. A yellow-haired harlot leaned her tanned, freckled shoulders out from a window above and sang in a melancholy voice,

“ _My sweet highwayman / thou eater of hearts / under the white moon / I am taken apart…_ ” 

Between the singer’s voice ringing in the air and the rush of a bird startled into flight, Geralt did not hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late. 

——

As the fertile “virgin” Omegas were carried, shrieking happily, away from their grape stomping, the fermented fruits of last year’s labor were free-poured to the cheering crowd. Winking fae lights floated in the night sky, lighting one by one as celebrators drank, groped and danced in the street. 

Jaskier had never _taken_ so much gold, as it fell like rain from the fingers of the drunk, rich and enthralled. After all, the first blush of heat was always the sweetest ... when senses were heightened and inhibitions lowered, when the pheromones an Omega released were more _come-hither_ than rut-inducing. After only half of his planned performance, Jaskier’s pockets were so heavy they made noise as he walked.

“A round on me!” Jaskier called, waving over a barmaid as he sat heavily beside Geralt on a bench. 

When the pale-eyed barmaid brought over their drinks, Jaskier made a point of flirting with her outrageously, until a pretty blush stained all the way down her fair neck and to the curve of her bust line. 

Geralt didn’t glance over at Jaskier as he finished the ale he was holding and reached for the new tankard.

“Well?” Jaskier asked. “Anything to say? _Thank you_ , perhaps, or _what a magnificent idea to come here tonight?_ ”

“Yes,” Geralt muttered, twisting in his seat so that Jaskier could see the ugly cut along his far cheek, accompanied by a bruise on his jaw. “It was a _great_ idea to come here tonight.” 

Jaskier’s expression melted into shock. “What the— how did you get into trouble in the four hours we were apart? Can I not leave you alone lest you do something _interesting_ without me—” 

Geralt raised his eyes heavenwards. “Nique sends her regards.” 

Immediately, Jaskier shrank back against Geralt, looking fearfully around the crowd. “She’s … she’s here?”

“Not personally, no,” Geralt said, turning back to his original position. “But she seems to have the idea that you jilted her for a Witcher. It was … difficult for me to disabuse her messenger of that assumption.” 

“Yes, well,” Jaskier took a quick sip of his ale. “Funny, that.” 

“Jaskier.” 

“You know how rumors get started … as if an Omega and an Alpha can’t be platonic travelling companions and best friends without—” 

“Do my eyes deceive me? Is it our dear _Julian_?” 

“Shit,” Jaskier muttered under his breath as his mouth widened into a hearty grin. “Valdo!” 

The two bowed to each other extravagantly as Geralt continued to sit, squinting at the proceedings. 

Valdo was a slim, dark Beta with (to Jaskier’s eye) over-groomed facial hair, poorly-concealed crow’s feet, and an attention-seeking philosophy to fashion. Tonight, he was clad in a gold brocade ensemble with lavender boots and a smug expression. 

Valdo turned to Geralt, “And this must be your Witcher.” 

“I’d like to think I’m my own Witcher.” Geralt muttered into his ale. 

“Allow me the honor of sharing a bottle with an old friend,” Valdo said, sitting on the bench and reaching over Jaskier’s shoulder to snap at the barmaid. Jaskier caught Geralt’s eye and made frantic gestures behind Valdo’s back that he hoped conveyed, _Please kill this man and make it look like an accident,_ but Geralt continued drinking like he was alone in the room. 

“Jaskier and I studied at Oxenfurt together,” Valdo said, taking the bottle from the irritated barmaid and giving Jaskier’s goblet a libral pour of wine. He winked at Geralt, “In fact, I may be his oldest friend.” 

“Congratulations,” Geralt said evenly. 

Jaskier quickly gulped down his wine, hoping that the sooner the bottle was empty, the sooner Valdo would release them from his presence, like an evil sorcerer releasing a curse. But Valdo seemed in no rush to depart as he began picking through the petty dramas of court gossip. 

“—dear, poor Sir Dedrogo.” 

Jaskier snapped back into attention, turning to face Valdo. Beside him, he saw Geralt stiffen. 

“I believe I’ve heard of the man … what of him?” Jaskier asked with deliberate casualness. As far as he knew, stories of Geralt and his Bride Surprise, or even Jaskier’s initial betrothal to Dedrogo had not spread beyond the court of Kerack. King Belohun had not been eager for it to be publicly known that his scheme to rid his daughter of her penniless suitor had failed so spectacularly. 

“You haven’t heard? Oh it truly is a tragedy. Princess Todde, the sickly little thing, finally succumbed to some consumption of the chest,” Valdo waved a perfumed handkerchief in front of his face in a show of sadness. “Mayhaps due to the long, cold ride she was subjected to during her elopement.” 

Though it was entirely ludicrous, Jaskier felt a twist of guilt in his gut. If he had stayed and married Dedrogo … perhaps the princess would still live. 

“There are other whispers at court, however …” Valdo trailed off meaningfully, enjoying his semi-rapt audience as he took a slow sip of his goblet. 

“Court gossip can hardly be trusted as a reliable source,” Jaskier said dismissively, which was the precise manner necessary to egg men like Valdo on. 

“You may be right right,” Valdo said, calling Jaskier’s bluff by turning to another topic of conversation altogether. “How is your dear mother?” 

Immediately, Jaskier thought of Katarina’s last letter. The line _Your Lady Mother has begun to ask after you_ caused the cold claws of fear to sink into Jaskier’s gut.

“As always, she is a pillar of strength to us all,” Jaskier smiled tightly. 

“A _magnificent_ woman, Viscountess Cordula,” Valdo said dreamily, and Jaskier had a frightening image of his university nemesis swooning at his mother’s feet. “A bastion of Alpha traditionalism. Though, I’ve always wondered how she felt about her only Omega child keeping such …” he wriggled his fingers in Geralt’s direction, “ _colorful_ company.” 

“Funny. Jaskier often accuses me of being the exact opposite.” 

“He’s so droll, Julian, I love him.” Valdo refilled Jaskier’s goblet and then his own with the last of the wine. “A Witcher and an unbonded noble Omega, travelling the land together hunting monsters and writing little ditties about it. If one of my playwrights had proposed the concept I would have dismissed it as a schoolgirl’s romance, but,” he gestured to Jaskier and Geralt, “proof indeed that fact is oftentimes stranger than fiction.” 

“What do you want to ask?” Geralt said, putting his empty tankard on the bartop with a heavy sound as he turned towards Valdo for the first time that night. 

“What?” Valdo asked, rattled to have the full force of Geralt’s gaze upon him.

“You came here to ask something,” Geralt said. “So, ask it.” 

“Geralt,” Jaskier laughed weakly, “I don’t think—” 

Valdo cocked an eyebrow. “Direct. So … rustic.” He flicked his eyes to Jaskier and smiled. “A little tune came to me the way of a brothel in Cidaris.” 

Jaskier’s heart sank to his stomach. 

“It was quite popular, it seemed, among _certain crowds_. Even moreso than some of my bawdiest,” Valdo said mournfully. “Naturally, when I saw Julian amongst the crowd I couldn’t pass up my chance to get the answer to the question that has just been _slaying_ me.” 

“Valdo—” Jaskier interrupted. 

“Is your Witcher the highwayman?” 

Geralt blinked. “The _highwayman_?” 

“ _His hair like the winter / his kiss is the summer / he never stays with me / leaving me empty_ ” Valdo sang, “ _Dreaming of the day / when he’ll take me / to distant shores—_ ”

Jaskier, between the blood draining from his face and his heart taking an unceremonious exit from his chest, noticed that Valdo was a little flat. 

“I think I get the general idea,” Geralt said finally, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Mayhaps a bit pedestrian,” Valdo said, misreading Geralt’s expression. “Our Julian has never quite mastered the art of metaphor. In any case, there are plenty of _interested parties_ wondering if the little songbird finally had his wings clipped—” 

Geralt stood abruptly as Jaskier reached for his arm. “Geralt—” but Geralt took no notice and continued walking, shouldering firmly through the crowd. 

Jaskier stared helplessly after, turning back to Valdo with a glare. “As always,” he smiled tightly, “it was wonderful to see you Valdo.” He hurriedly strode away, gritting his teeth. 

“Send my love to the Viscountess!” Valdo called after him.

——

Though Roach was usually tolerant of Geralt’s ministrations, even she had lost the last of her patience tonight, nipping at Geralt’s fingers as he combed tangles from her mane. 

“Don’t take his side on this,” Geralt grumbled, pointing at her in warning before snatching his finger away before she could snap at it as well. 

The stable door opened with a creak. “Look,” Jaskier said, walking into the light of the lantern with his palms up in a gesture of peace. “It’s a bit tasteless, sure, but you do come off looking pretty … gifted. In the bedroom department.”

“If you’re the source of these rumors, end them.” Geralt said darkly. “I’m not one of your _play-things_.” 

“I didn’t mean—” Jaskier said, then sighed deeply. He looked tired, wan in the lantern light, his pants spilling with coin and his brow dotted with sweat. If he had jogged to the inn from the city center it was a wonder he hadn’t been mugged.

Geralt wanted to touch him. It was all he had thought about, in the catacombs. When he’d exhausted the last of his potions, when he had felt teeth at his neck and steel in his gut. He’d thought of Jaskier, sweet-smelling and soft under the sun. And how much he’d wanted to touch him. 

Instead, Geralt forced himself to grow the seed of anger blooming in his chest. “I warned you,” he said harshly. “ _Don’t_ play-act the part of a Witcher’s bond-mate—” 

“It’s not about bonding!” Jaskier said loudly, spooking the horses with his volume. “If you … if you listened to the song,” he said, quieter, “It’s merely a dalliance. A fantasy of a dalliance.” His voice was almost at a whisper when he finished, “If even that.” Jaskier shook his head, the heat of anger coloring his tone. “Why does it matter so much anyway? You’re always so _prickly_ and paranoid about me being your Bride Surprise. At even the _hint_ of being bonded to me. Am I really that repulsive?” he laughed dryly. “Don’t tell me it’s because I’ve already been thoroughly deflowered, otherwise I’ll admit to having the wrong estimation of you.” 

“It has nothing to do with you.” Geralt said quickly, the hint of a growl in his voice. Shame, hot and sharp prickled beneath his skin. “Omegas are not for the likes of us Witchers.” 

_Synthetic Alphas,_ they’d called it at Kaer Morghen, all forced into the same orientation due to the mutagens. Along with the enhanced physical capabilities — hormones which induced greater muscle production and a longer period of growth — Alphas retained a social advantage over Betas and Omegas due to their commanding presence. If Geralt was destined to present differently, he’d never been given the chance. 

He, like all Witchers, was a mage-made experiment, a twisted in-between. An Alpha who didn’t Rut, who couldn’t have children. An Alpha undeserving — perhaps incapable — of bonding with an Omega. 

“Mysterious Witcher thing,” Jaskier mumbled. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Bonding with a Witcher would bring you only pain,” Geralt said, gripping the loop of leather in his palm so tightly that his knuckles had turned bone-white. He cleared his throat. “There are many who despise us. Who would come after you. You’d be nothing but a weak spot for me.” 

Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it, looking guilty. 

“There might be only one way to dispel the rumors.” Geralt forced himself to open his hand and drop Roach’s tack, staring at the red mark it bit into his skin. 

“Geralt, no! Let’s talk about this,” Jaskier said, rushing up to the door of the stall, “I know I made a mistake in a moment of weakness, but you can’t throw away this— this—” 

“Jasker, _go_ ,” Geralt said through his teeth, forcing every ounce of Alpha command he could muster, warring against the deep, instinctual drive he had to _keep_ , to _protect_ his Omega. 

Jaskier wasn’t his Omega. 

Jaskier stumbled back against the far wall as if pushed, gasping as he tried to resist Geralt’s command. It was a mean trick Geralt played and he knew it, feeling every bit the scum when he saw the betrayal on Jaskier’s face. 

“If the Alpha wills it,” Jaskier said bitterly, and Geralt watched him turn and leave, taking the light with him.

——

By the end of the night, Jaskier found himself at the Twin Lanterns, the brothel he had hoped to visit together with Geralt. How well that had worked out, after all. 

It was easy enough to drown heartache, so Jaskier spent his coin on drink. _Lots_ of drink — honey ale, wildflower mead, late-summer wine which stained his tongue. He collected quite a harem of whores and admirers, all happy to laugh at his jokes and make sure he didn’t drink alone. 

Until a lull in the night, when Jaskier found himself in a quiet corner he had no memory of moving to, his head pounding and his chest hurting. 

“Where is your Alpha, lost one?” A cold drink of ale appeared at his elbow. Jaskier levered himself up to see an Alpha settling into the seat next to him. She was tall, willowy, the smallest laugh lines at the sides of her mouth betraying her age. “Cora,” she introduced herself, reaching forward to brush a lock of hair from Jaskier’s forehead. Her fingers felt cool, and Jaskier could not help himself from swaying into her influence. 

“I don’t have an Alpha,” Jaskier meant for the words to come out flirtatiously, but they sounded bitter instead. “I’m untethered as a babe exiting the womb.” He tipped the tankard towards his mouth, spilling a great deal down the front of his tunic. Cora smiled at him, undismayed by his messy state. 

She slid her hand up his back, scratching his skin with her blunt nails. “You smell like one, but … superficially.”

Jaskier shrugged. “That’ll fade soon.” 

“You also smell like heat,” Cora leaned forward to whisper in his ear, her breath warm. 

“Just a couple of days before,” Jaskier murmured, his body stirring. It was only natural, and Cora _did_ smell good, like autumn air and wood smoke, her musk softer and less harsh than Geralt’s. 

“Let me help you.” Cora ran her nails across his bare nape, sending tingles up his back. Jaskier shifted in his seat. 

“I couldn’t possibly refuse such a generous offer,” Jaskier whispered weakly, as Cora entwined her fingers with his and led him towards the stairs, which Jaskier managed to stumble up in the dark. 

Blessedly, Jaskier allowed his faculties to abandon him and followed Cora through winding turns and finally an open room. He concentrated on Cora’s scent, kissing the curve of her neck, stumbling against her as she turned to face him. Heat warmed his blood, reacting to the pheromones in her musk. Jaskier might dislike Alphas, but he could hardly begrudge the way his body reacted when Cora slid a hand up to his neck. His pulse, fast like a rabbit’s against her thumb. His breath, fluttering from his lips. His legs, weak like water—

And suddenly everything went dark. The last thing Jaskier remembered was his cheek pressing against the carpet, and a male voice joining Cora’s, saying _Get him out of here_.


	5. Chapter 5

Geralt felt like a fool the next morning, his tongue thick in his mouth as he slid the innkeeper a coin for his morning ale. “Have you …” he cleared his throat, “have you seen a bard here today? Yea high and um, brown hair …” 

The innkeeper squinted at him. “The Omega with ya? Sorry friend, he didn’t come in last night.” 

Geralt nodded quickly, turning away. 

The innkeeper’s voice grew pitying. “Festivals like these, when the drink flows freely, there’s nary an Alpha that hasn’t had a morning like this.” 

“Thanks,” Geralt said, leaving his food untouched and walking out to the street. 

The sun felt harsh that morning, the morning grey and as listless as the people on the street, all hungover but without the luxury of sleeping it off. Debris littered the path, shredded banners flying weakly in the breeze as they were pulled down. 

Jaskier might be leagues away by now. Geralt rubbed his forehead with his fingers, regret and guilt eating at him like acid. Jaskier was probably in the bed of another Alpha, one capable of giving him warmth and love and children, one who would be allowed to kiss the chatter from his lips and fuck him through his heat. 

_It’s for the best_ , Geralt told himself, feeling as if he had been gutted, _it was always going to happen this way_. 

Yet, when he heard the familiar lyrics of _My Highwayman_ from across the square, he immediately sought the source, his steps quickening as the streets opened to a courtyard, and a great marble fountain. On the far side of the fountain sat a bard, his back to Geralt. 

The second Geralt reached for the bard’s shoulder he knew he had the wrong man. 

“Oh,” Valdo Marx said, squinting upwards. “Well, this is embarrassing.” 

“Fuck.” Geralt said, his hand falling to his side. He looked around the nearly empty courtyard, populated only by pigeons and sweepers. 

“If I must, I will beg your pardon for the little tiff I seemed to have caused between you and Julian last night.” Valdo took off his red and yellow beret and fluffed it. He put it back on his head at a jaunty angle, where it promptly slipped to a flat angle. “I confess I really _did_ think that you two had bonded, perhaps in secret _a la mode_ , but his behavior at the Twin Lanterns last night—” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, his focus snapping back onto Valdo. “Where?” 

“Where else? The jewel of Beauclair’s red light district,” Valdo said, strumming absently at his lute. “On the bosom of some Alpha whore, leaking pheromones all over. It’s a shame how rife this industry is with talentless hacks skating by on sexual appeal. Not that I’m speaking of dear Julian _of course_ —” 

“Thanks,” Geralt said curtly, turning away. Then, as an afterthought, Geralt picked up Valdo by the lapels of his velvet jacket and dumped him, lute and all, into the fountain. 

As Valdo’s sputtering shrieks faded behind him, Geralt stalked away, unable to ignore the growing churning in his gut. 

Something was _wrong_. 

——

Jaskier woke when the wagon under him jolted, sending his head skittering across the wood. He wriggled, slowly gaining his senses. He was under a heavy, itchy tarp, his wrists and ankles bound with corded rope. 

“Hey!” he yelled, immediately getting a mouthful of dust.

Suddenly, the tarp covering him was pulled off, making Jaskier cringe as the full bright of day nearly blinded his sensitive eyes.

“Morning, princess. Or should I say _Viscount_?” It was Cora, looming over him. She had taken off the guise of a whore and was clad in plain worker’s clothes, her hair in a red-silver braid over one shoulder. Jaskier wriggled himself into a sitting position, grimacing. They had packed him among some crates which smelled of rotting vegetables, just off the peak of ripeness. 

“Phelata!” a male voice called from the side of the road and she turned briefly.

“That your real name?” Jaskier asked when she turned back. 

“The less you know, the better.” Cora— _Phelata_ —sat back down in the cart, rooting among the produce until she found an apple which looked battered to the point of exhaustion. Casually, she took out a knife and began carving it into yellow wedges. 

Jaskier’s stomach took an untimely moment to release a low rumble. 

“Are you hungry, little Viscount?” Phelata asked, a spark of what had entranced Jaskier to her in the brothel lighting her eyes. 

“I wouldn’t mind a nibble,” Jaskier said weakly. 

“Well I’d rather let you starve.” Phelata smiled coldly. “ _Aristocrat_. Wasting bread while we begged on the streets, eating rats and the dead of war.” Jaskier had thought that her name sounded foreign … refugees from the Northern War were not uncommon around these parts, many former soldiers turning to banditry and mercenary work. 

Jaskier swallowed. “Don’t think that I don’t have sympathy for your … situation—because I do—but if you’re planning to ask my family for ransom I would advise against it. ” 

“Would you,” Phelata said dryly, tossing the apple core off the wagon and wiping her blade with a handkerchief. 

“I haven’t seen or talked to them in years,” Jaskier said earnestly, “I’ve sullied myself sexually— _witnesses upon request_ —and am of no use to them. You’ll get nothing.” 

“You’re yet unbonded,” Phelata said, “So they must think you’re good for something.” At Jaskier’s expression she added. “Who else do you think paid us to retrieve you?” 

——

“I’m afraid, Witcher, that if I were so loose with my clientele list as you were with your Omega, I would be in the situation you find yourself in now—” The brothel Monsieur winked coyly at Geralt from behind his lace fan, “without any.” 

A muscle jumped in Geralt’s jaw, but he remained silent, afraid of what he could start in anger that would only waste time in locating Jaskier. Though the monsieur was an Omega, Geralt had little doubt that the bouncers at the door would intervene should he attempt to strong-arm him. Angrily, Geralt elected instead to stalk away instead, briefly glancing at the whores who had assembled in the balcony upstairs—a rainbow of color in their silk robes and lingerie—attracted by the noise. One, a yellow-haired Omega, met Geralt’s eyes and promptly turned to flee. 

Geralt stepped outside the brothel and into the late afternoon bustle of Beauclair. With the end of the fair, daily life was returning to normalcy. Around him, tradesmen and field hands headed to the taverns while goodwives chattered around the town well with their babes at their hips. Geralt watched the flow of the populace helplessly. Was one of them Jaskier, moving on with his life after having finally given up on Geralt?

His instincts, or perhaps his baseless hope, said no. 

“Wait, goodsir! I beg you!” An Omega whore caught Geralt’s arm. She had covered her head with a dark scarf, though a few strands of yellow hair escaped and framed her plump, pretty face. “I know the bard of whom you speak.”

“Where is he?” Geralt asked urgently, but she shook her head. 

“Not here,” she looked around hurriedly, then indicated a nearby alley. As Geralt followed her, he couldn’t help but feel that this could be a perfect ambush. But the possibility of learning the whereabouts of Jaskier was too valuable to pass up. 

“Where is the bard?” Geralt asked, when they were well-hidden from the crowds. 

“I’m not sure,” the Omega said, lowering her scarf. “But I saw him in our brothel last night. He was helpless with drink, weak as a babe.” 

Geralt hissed through his teeth, looking away when the Omega shrank with fear at his expression. “Was he with an Alpha?” 

“Yes,” the Omega said. “One I’ve never seen before and have not seen since. I do not believe she works for our monsieur.” She nervously plucked at her scarf. “At least, not as a whore like me.” 

“Then how was she on the floor?” 

The Omega bit her lip, looking around nervously. Geralt had to restrain himself from shaking her. 

“It’s on my neck to tell you this, but—” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, “sometimes customers—important customers—go … missing. We are forbidden from speaking about it. That’s all I know.” 

Geralt’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “No one will know I heard this from you,” he said, pressing a coin to her palm and turning to step away. 

“I hope you find him,” the Omega said, clutching the scarf to her bosom. “His songs are ever so lovely.” She shyly ducked her head. “I knew you to be Geralt of Rivia from his words. Are you … are you also his highwayman?” 

“If it’s not too late,” Geralt muttered, as he strode away. 

——

The days of travel bled into each other, Jaskier’s sense of time becoming increasingly slippery as he descended into heat. At some point, they left the vegetable wagon and took horses though Belhaven, Jaskier’s fever and his naturally poor riding skills making him a burden indeed. 

Thankfully, the riding was short-lived and they spent most of their journey on a river barge, allowing Jaskier the luxury of burning his fever alone, sweating through his clothes as he shivered in the hold. It was only his pride which prevented him from giving his aching body some relief with the small amount of movement his bonds allowed. And his pride was sorely tested. 

Once, he had heard muffled sounds of Phelata arguing with some man that Jaskier should be medicated. _He is a distraction_ , were her exact words. The response implied, sinisterly, that the contractors had requested Jaskier precisely in such a weakened state. 

Phelata soon passed on duties of Jaskier’s care onto a long-haired Beta who smelled terrible and would not untie Jaskier’s hands during feeding, forcing him to gnaw on hard cheese and heels of bread like a hamster. Though she looked thick, she was fast, making Jaskier’s chances of escape dimmer by the day. She also talked of nothing but whittling, and by the end of the second day in her company Jaskier thought he might sympathize with Geralt’s constant annoyance.

Geralt. The thought of him sent an ache through Jaskier’s heart.

Was Geralt searching for him? Did he even know Jaskier had been taken? Or did he just leave town with the next job, content to be rid of one jabbering, drippy Omega? 

Jaskier told himself not to get his hopes up. 

_He’s hard-hearted. He doesn’t care for you._

_You are not bonded. He has no obligation._

Yet somehow Jaskier could never quite crush that kernel of hope that Geralt would rescue him. Every time they stopped to water the horses or rest for the night, Jaskier tried to leave a sign. Ripping the lace off of his sleeve to tie to a branch, or carving the crude picture of a flower on the trunk of a tree. Pathetic attempts, but it kept his mind from what was to come. Whatever it was that his Lady Mother wanted of him. 

And Geralt, who Jaskier could not help but expect every time there was a snap of a twig in the night, or heard strange horses nearby. Geralt, with swords brandished, cutting through foes like butter and sweeping Jaskier into his arms like in one of his songs. 

But he did not come. 

And, as Jaskier watched the squat, grey towers of Petrelsteyn Castle crown once more into view, the smell of salt marsh sending him back into dreaded memory, it looked like Geralt never would.


	6. Chapter 6

“Ow!” Jaskier shouted as he was dumped unceremoniously from the carriage. “Precious cargo here! To be delivered in one piece!” He looked up at the shadowy figure of Otirt, who walked up with two Petrelsteyn guards on either side of him. “At least I think you want me in one piece.” 

“Pity you couldn’t have ripped out his tongue while you were at it,” Otirt sniffed, tossing Phelata a sack of coin which jangled as she caught it out of the air. 

“For someone who despises nobles so much you sure like their money,” Jaskier spat at her as he was hauled to his feet. 

“May I?” Phelata asked Otirt.

“Be my guest,” Otirt replied and Phelata punched Jaskier in the stomach. 

“Ooooh,” Jaskier wheezed, and would have vomited had his stomach been less empty. “Hey!” he coughed, “…. you’re not supposed to punch an Omega!” Breathless, he added, “We have important bits here!” The guards hauled him bodily towards the back entrance of the castle, and Jaskier saw Phelata and her people melt into the darkness.

Otirt grimaced as he was forced to keep pace with the guards, his nostrils flaring as he looked at Jaskier. “The shape you’re in. Despicable.” 

“My apologies,” Jaskier said, laughing weakly. “I asked for a bath, but my smugglers were less than cooperative.” 

“Promiscuous and lippy, as always.” Otirt opened a door and the guards dumped Jaskier’s limp body on a rug. “No wonder the Witcher didn’t wish to claim you.” 

“Probably.” Jaskier rolled himself over with much effort, noticing with relief the steaming tub in the corner. Every part of him _ached_ , and it made it easier to ignore the growing sense of dread in his stomach.

Otirt snorted and left the room, closing the door after himself with a definitive thud. 

Jaskier resisted the urge to blow a raspberry after him, gathering his energy for an attempt at standing. In the last days of his captivity, when the heat made him weaker than an unsuckled babe, Phelata and her crew had stopped keeping Jaskier bound. However, the sores were not yet healed and, as Jaskier rubbed the blisters on his wrists and ankles, he thought darkly that they would surely scar. 

The bedroom he was in was an unfamiliar one—a guest room which had been cleaned in a perfunctory manner, the carpet smelling stale with dust. Jaskier grabbed for a nearby bedpost and managed to lever himself onto his feet, though his knees felt like butter and his head rang. 

At the far wall was a narrow window, waist-high and unshuttered. A cool, teasing breeze blew from its direction and Jaskier groped for it, moving on shaky legs across the room until he felt the stone window ledge underneath his palms, sticking his head out. The cool night air cleared his head a touch. He looked down and saw that he was dizzyingly high from the ground, ruining another plan of escape. 

“Jaskier!” a voice shrieked, and he turned abruptly, missing the flurry of action below.

——

Geralt wanted to kill them all. 

He watched them leave the castle—two Betas and an Alpha, their worn armor bearing insignias of an Ebbing militia that no longer existed. He was too far away to smell Jaskier upon them, to smell his blood and suffering, otherwise Geralt knew he would not have been able to remain hidden until they passed, growling with ill-tempered rage. 

He was too late. 

The Monsieur had been difficult to corner, and Geralt was forced to investigate by breaking into the brothel office at an unattended moment. He found the letters, sealed with the de Lettenhove insignia, in the Monsieur’s lockbox. The parchment was thick, the ink hurriedly written and smudged. Something about the shape of the calligraphy reminded Geralt of the letters Jaskier received occasionally. 

It stated that if Jaskier was yet unbonded, there was a substantial reward to be had were he brought alive to Petrelsteyn Castle. 

Geralt had left Beauclair that night. 

To Roach’s credit, she seemed to sense Geralt’s urgency and gave no complaint about their days of hard riding. But the people who took Jaskier had a head start and no matter how hard he pushed, Geralt was always a few days behind, trying desperately to close the gap. 

Once, he had retrieved a scrap of lace from some brush at the edge of a trail. Geralt had almost missed it, dismissing it as trash, but something had given him pause. When he picked it up, he could smell the faintest trace of Jaskier’s scent, his heat and his tears. It felt like a punch to the gut, leaving Geralt hollowed and trembling. 

_If Jaskier was yet unbonded_. 

Whatever was to happen to him was Geralt’s fault. Pained, he touched the lace to his lips before crumpling it in a bloodless fist. 

He had to save Jaskier. Or die trying.

Petrelsteyn Castle had improved their guard rotations since the Bride Surprise incident. The elopement of the Princess, while a piece of juicy court gossip, had also exposed the holes in Petrelsteyn’s security and humiliated King Belohun. At the door, patrols had been doubled from four to eight heavily armed guards, with three more on the parapet above and an indeterminate number in the watchtower. Approaching from the front was clear suicide. 

Geralt moved through the tall grass, staying in the shadows as he scrutinized the stone walls of the fortress for an opening. 

There. On the North side, a window too high for any human to jump. It seemed just wide enough for Geralt to squeeze through, and the bars were rusted through at the ends and could be easily removed with a bit of force. 

Luck was on his side. The guard patrolling this wall looked to be both unpartnered and greatly enjoying his drink. 

When the bright moon was momentarily obscured by clouds, Geralt took his chance to dart quickly to the window. Sprinting to give himself momentum, he leaped towards the opening, grasping two of the rusted bars and feeling them twist dangerously in his hands. 

This was the difficult part. It would take concentration and luck to wrench out the bars one by one and lower them to the ground without making noise. Then there was the consideration of where he would actually find himself when he made it through. 

The sound of creaking from above caused Geralt to look up, just in time to see the panels of a high window push open. From his vantage, he could not see more than a blur of a figure lean out, but in the next second, the scent of _heat_ , _Jaskier’s heat_ made a violent shudder run through Geralt’s body. 

Mistake. Geralt’s foot slipped on the slick stone of the castle and one of the bars gave way, falling on the ground with a loud clang.

“Hey!” a guard called from the ground, followed by the sound of feet running towards him. 

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, as he was pulled down. 

——

Katarina flew to the window and pulled Jaskier inside, hugging him tightly until he began wincing. “What did he do to you?” Her face was horrified as she peeled Jaskier’s shirt away from his torso to see the smattering of bruises on his skin. 

“It wasn’t the smoothest journey to be sure,” Jaskier said, smiling widely despite the pain of his cracked lips. They embraced again, more carefully this time. 

“My poor, mistreated boy,” Katarina whispered, gently brushing his hair away from his face. Jaskier was alarmed to see tears in his stalwart guardian’s eyes. “You must bathe, then I’ll fetch you some hot food and wine.” 

“That sounds amazing,” Jaskier said, his stomach gurgling in agreement. He shook his head to clear it. “But first, please, what the hell is going on?” 

“Don’t worry now, chit. Nothing will harm you here,” Katarina made soothing noises as she pulled Jaskier out of his clothes, “Your Lady Mother has arranged everything so that you’ll be safe.” Jaskier allowed himself to be pushed into the water and could hardly keep from groaning as his sore muscles were finally allowed to relax. 

“Safe from what?” He asked weakly, feeling a wave of fatigue wash over him as Katarina fussed about, lathering his hair with lavender soap that brought back vivid memories of childhood, when he was warm and coddled and carefree. 

“The Witcher’s claim, of course.” 

“Witcher?” Jaskier blinked, feeling as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped atop him. 

“Don’t worry, you will never have to see him again,” Katarina said fiercely. “That … that _brute_. I was so incensed when I received your letters, Talda had to stop me from marching out there myself to drag you home. ” 

Jaskier shook his head, feeling as if he were moving through honey. “You’re wrong, he didn’t—” He swallowed and Katarina quickly moved to fetch him some wine. “My letters?” 

“Lord Otirt was kind enough to arrange having them read to me,” Katarina said, pouring Jaskier a goblet of wine. “Though I’m thankful he spared me the worst of it. The brutalities you must have withstood … and he had not even the decency of making an honest Omega of you!” 

Jaskier groaned, holding his head in his hand. He should have known to give explicit instructions for Katarina to not share the contents of his letters with the Viscountess or her husband, but Katarina had always been too trusting. 

Misunderstanding his exasperation, Katarina cooed, her expression softening, “I know, chit. I know it hurts now.” She pressed the wine to Jaskier’s lips and helped him sip from it until he retained his senses. “Just be strong until tonight.” 

“What’s happening tonight?” Jaskier tried to push himself up onto his arms and ended up splashing into the tub, sluicing water over the stone floor. 

“Didn’t Lord Otirt tell you? Ach, it can’t be helped with how fast everything was arranged.” Katarina kneeled to mop up the water. “The Viscountess has once again betrothed you to Sir Dedrogo, though it will be a rather … quick betrothal this time. Less chance for intruders,” she sounded as if she were forcing levity into her tone for Jaskier’s benefit. 

Jaskier scrubbed his hand over his face, willing the room to stop spinning. Or, alternatively, keep spinning to the point which he could convince himself that this was all a nightmare. “Quick as in …?”

She bustled to a wardrobe on the far end of the room and opened it wide, revealing the ivory brocade betrothal suit which suddenly dominated the room, looming large in Jaskier’s vision. “As in, the wedding is tonight.” 

When Jaskier showed no evidence of happiness, her expression faltered. “I know it’s not what one hopes for, marrying so quickly a widower with a young babe ... for surely he is still grieving the late princess. Mayhaps you can be the salve to Sir Dedrogo’s broken heart? An unusual situation to be sure, but all the court has heard of your plight and is in sympathy. None could begrudge an Omega escaping his cruel captor—” 

“Katarina,” Jaskier said tightly, reaching out and grabbing her wrist. “You have to. Listen. To. Me.” 

Katarina’s eyes widened in alarm, but she did not pull away.

“Please help me, you … you need to _understand_ —” He drew in a deep breath, dimly aware that his fingers were trembling. “Geralt didn’t do anything. He’s never laid a hand on me and I’ve only every followed him willingly.” Jaskier swallowed, “I don’t want this … I don’t want _any_ of this.” 

“Oh my sweet boy,” Katarina put a hand to his forehead, “‘Tis the heat that’s gotten you so strange—” 

“ _Listen_ to me,” Jaskier said, close to tears. “Please. I … I don’t want to leave Geralt,” his voice began to tremble embarrassingly. “I don’t want to be bonded to another.” 

Katarina’s face expressed shock and confusion before a loud knock cut through. 

“Is my son decent?” the Viscountess’ cool voice made Jaskier feel suddenly as though he were breathing through a reed, though he had not yet donned the tight-fitting betrothal suit. “The wedding party will not be kept waiting.”

——

“State your business,” the guard said, reaching for his blade. Geralt wiped the blood from his mouth as he rose painfully from his feet. He could see the dawn of recognition in the guard’s eyes as he took in Geralt’s appearance. “Stay back!” the guard barked, stepping back to his circle of compatriots. 

Three of them surrounded Geralt. A fourth running for more. Scarce time to act. 

Geralt drew his silver blade upon the closest guard, spinning it in his hand to draw the man’s attention while his other hand went for his steel and stabbed it deep in man’s gut. A second guard rushed forward with a cry, and Geralt shoved the body of his compatriot upon him, toppling them both and following with a forward thrust of Geralt’s silver sword that pinned the both of them to the ground. 

The reach left his flank open for attack. Geralt felt the shift in the air upon his nape as the third guard’s sword swung for his neck. Just in time, he threw himself towards the wall, receiving a painful, though shallow slice to the arm. 

Geralt leapt into a defensive position, brandishing both of his swords as he and the third guard circled each other. This man was grizzled. More skilled. Likely the Captain of the Guard. 

“I know you …” the guard narrowed his eyes. “You’re the Witcher.” 

“Send my regards to the King,” Geralt muttered. He made a quick feint at the Guard Captain, jumping back quickly as the man swung for him. As he was off-balance, Geralt shouldered the Captain into the wall, the man’s head crushing against the stone with a wet thud.

Lights and noises bobbing towards him. Geralt’s eyes flickered to a servant’s entrance that the guards surrounding him had been tasked to patrol, now left defenseless. 

Running to the wood door, Geralt listened briefly to ensure there was no one immediately inside before pushing in. 

He found himself at the bottom of a stairwell, a small room used for the storage of timber. Thinking quickly, Geralt grabbed a cut pank and wedged it into the bottom of the door. He stole upstairs quietly as the door handle began to jiggle, muffled, angry shouts coming from outside. 

At this time of night, the kitchen was empty, its large fire burnt to ember, lighting the room with a low, orange glow. A single kitchen maid lay sleeping, curled by the fire, and Geralt stepped over her gingerly, pricking his ears for commotion. 

Breathing deeply, Geralt attempted to locate the pulse of Jaskier’s heat, any hint of the sweet, musky scent that had shattered his concentration earlier and had been tormenting him for so long. But there was nothing around but the smell of old grease, rotting vegetables and charcoal. 

When Geralt was young he had been told tales of how bonded pairs might feel physical and psychological pain upon separation, suffering sympathetically when the other was in duress. At the time, he had thought it all a fairy story to drill into the Witcher children just how little they could afford the baggage of a bonding, but now Geralt could not discount the sharp ache in his gut, like cold steel he could not remove, growing with every minute Jaskier was in his vicinity, but out of his reach. 

His control was fraying. 

Geralt stole into the hall, flattening around a dark corner as a guard rushed down the path he had just travelled, his armor clinking as he disappeared around a bend. Just as Geralt thought he was safe, another set of footsteps started down the hall. These were softer, and each step was punctuated with a rustle of fabric instead of the clang of metal. Not a guard, a servant.

Most importantly, whoever this was smelled of Jaskier. 

When the figure passed Geralt’s alcove, he clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her to him.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said urgently. The servant was an older Omega, her eyes wide with fear. She was carrying a basket which had been upset in the struggle, now opened and spilling soiled clothes over the hall which reeked of Jaskier’s scent. Geralt’s nostrils flared. “I’ll remove my hand. Don’t scream.” The Omega nodded in response. 

“I know you …” the Omega whispered, turning towards him. “Geralt of Rivia.” 

“Where are they keeping Jaskier?” Geralt gritted through his teeth, Jaskier’s scent crawling under his skin and scrambling his senses. But still, he could feel something familiar about this Omega, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on … “You are … Katarina?” Geralt asked sharply, not realizing he was squeezing her arms until she began to wince. He released her. “Jaskier told me about you.” 

“Yes, and I will _never_ tell you where Jaskier is, not even if you kill me!” She spat, shoving at his chest. Geralt stepped back, confused. Jaskier had described her as a motherly figure, the only one who had bothered to love him at Lettenhove. 

“Why would you conspire with his kidnappers?” Geralt asked, his voice rough. “He _loved_ you. He _trusted_ you.” 

“Kidnappers?” Katarina shook her head. “That’s- that’s mad! Jaskier was brought here willingly, to escape you!” 

Geralt tensed. “Is that what he told you?” 

“Jaskier swears that you’ve never hurt him, but I’m not so easily convinced,” Katarina said, acid dripping from her tone. “I’ve known many an Omega who suffered under their Alpha’s hand, but would run again and again to them, like lambs to the slaughter.” 

“I’ve never …” The words dried up in Geralt’s throat as he thought of Jaskier’s worn face, his hurt expression as he turned away. “Not physically,” Geralt said, taking a deep breath. “You know why he was brought here. They’re using him, pimping him out like a prize whore-” 

Katarina slapped Geralt across the face. “You will _not_ speak of my Julian like that,” she said, though she was trembling, and her eyes shone with tears.

“You know this to be true,” Geralt said quietly. 

“... is there something wrong?” a guard’s voice rang from down the corridor. Geralt froze as Katarina opened her mouth. 

“N-nothing at all!” She called, stepping from the alcove to gather the linens back into the basket. “I simply slipped and made a mess.” 

The guard grunted. “Have you seen a man running around these parts? White hair? Yellow eyes?” Geralt stepped further into the shadows as Katarina hesitated. 

“I’ve seen no one but the young Lord all night,” she said loudly, “but if I encounter such a man I shall make sure to let you know.” 

Geralt breathed a sigh of relief as the guard stepped away. Katarina stood at the opposite side of the hallway, in the light, looking at him with hard eyes. 

“Don’t thank me,” she said. “I spared you for Jaskier’s sake, not yours.” She bent down and grabbed a white shirt, smacking it down into the basket with anger. “Even if what you say is true … even if he didn’t run from you, even if he cares for you, what kind of life do you have to offer him?” She lifted her chin. “Sleeping in the dirt? Being _used_ by an Alpha who can’t even deign to offer him the security of a bond?” 

_I never used him,_ Geralt wanted to say, but that was a lie. He had used Jaskier like a flower uses the sun, turning his head to his light, basking in his music, his smiles. Jaskier looked at Geralt as a friend rather than a monster and Geralt … Geralt had gotten too used to this happiness. 

“Tonight he is to marry the Alpha he was promised to, a man with land, and a noble claim.” Katarina said. “He has a babe who needs a nurturer, and can give Jaskier more besides.” 

Geralt swallowed dryly. “You’re right,” he said, his voice raw. “I cannot give him any of that.” Geralt looked up to find Katarina watching him. “But neither will I let you clip his wings and put him in a cage.” 

Katarina looked at him uncertainly, a war of emotion on her face. 

“Let me see him,” Geralt found himself pleading, ready to fall upon his knees if need be. “If Jaskier wants nothing to do with me, I’ll leave. I promise.” 

Somewhere in the castle came the sound of ringing bells. Katarina looked away sharply, and Geralt knew that the ceremony had begun. 

Urgently, he moved towards Katarina, uncaring of who saw them in the hall. “Whatever his choice, I’ll respect it,” he said, his voice harsh. “Can you say the same?” 

——

It was perhaps the saddest wedding in all of history. 

Held secretively in the dead of night, with less than a dozen in attendance. The groom reeking of grief while the bride reeked of pheromones, swaying in his over-starched clothing and so deep in his heat that the Alphas in attendance were forced to hold perfumed handkerchiefs over their noses. 

Jaskier kept waiting for the right moment to interject his objection, that this was all a misunderstanding and he was perfectly happy in his not-relationship with Geralt thank you and trying to save him from his destiny by bonding him with another without consultation was really not necessary—

But the presence of his Alpha mother cowed Jaskier, made his tongue thick in his mouth and his heart tremble in his chest. On the road, Jaskier had felt like an entirely different person, free to be loud, and happy and admired. But just a twist of the Viscountess’ mouth, just hearing her voice made him small and helpless again, a meek Omega child stifled in tight collars.

King Belohun, irate at being awoken from his slumber, beckoned Jaskier to the rectorate with a brisk wave of his hand and Jaskier found himself half-shoved, half-carried towards Sir Dedrogo. 

Since he never did manage to see his then-soon-to-be-husband the previous time they were at Petrelsteyn, Jaskier’s last image of him was as a plain-faced, chubby-cheeked boy in a crowd, nut-brown from the sun, always with a nervous, sneering expression. 

This knight before him looked haggard, much older than his years. Lank black hair fell over eyes bruised with grief. Jaskier noticed that there was a nurse behind him bouncing a bundle of child. 

It dawned on him, all of a sudden.

Why his parents had taken him. Why _now_. Why the wedding. 

A servant unfurled a parchment in front of the king, who nodded. “The babe ...”

“ _Annemarie_ ,” Dedrogo muttered under his beath.

“Is hereby declared a recognized descendent of the House de Lettenhove and …” 

It was never about “saving” him. He was here to claim the child as his own. Jaskier wanted to turn to his mother, scream at her for never giving a shit about him outside of using him as one of her political pawns. But that was the plight of all noble children, so the fault was truly with Jaskier, for having any hope it could be different. 

He looked at Dedrogo, who had also pursued love outside of his duty, and knew that this was his future if he continued chasing Geralt’s footsteps, begging for scraps of affection to keep warm the embers of his hopeless crush. He could do worse than Dedrogo, Jaskier thought, though it might have been his heat swaying him to Dedrogo’s rut pheromones. The knight was good-looking … in a manner, and surely kinder for being the hero of a romantic tragedy. And perhaps the babe was the quieter type—

“ _Stop!_ ” 

All eyes turned to the door of the throne room, where Geralt was standing like he had in the banquet hall years ago, incensed and mildly wounded, his eyes searching the crowd until they found Jaskier’s. 

_He came for me,_ Jaskier’s eyes widened, his heart beginning to pound. 

“I have come to claim my Bride Surprise.” 

“Call the guards!” the Viscountess shouted. 

“You once claimed you honored the Law of Surprise,” Geralt said, walking slowly down the aisle towards Dedrogo. 

A spark ignited in Dedrogo’s dead eyes. “You question my honor?” He nodded at Jaskier not unkindly. “You failed to bond this Omega for years, leaving him _ruined_ with no recourse but to flee from your presence into proper society.” He looked pityingly into Jaskier’s eyes. “I care not that you are sullied by this one, for it surely was against your will.” 

“Were not, wouldn’t be,” Jaskier muttered to himself. 

“You should treat it as a _favor_ that I would marry this … ruined Omega, thus saving himself and his family from social exsanguination. Perhaps this is how _Witchers_ elect to treat Omegas, but—” 

“Alright, _no_.” Jaskier pushed away from Dedrogo who, quite surprised, let him stumble down the dais. “Geralt, let’s go. I deserve better than _this_ , at least.” 

“You’re not going _anywhere_ ,” the Viscountess hissed, leaping forward to wrap her fingers around Jaskier’s arm. They dug like claws into his skin. 

He turned to see her face, lips peeled back from her clenched teeth, rage in her eyes. Once, he would have cowered from this. But now … now he knew Geralt stood beside him. 

He laughed. 

“Lady Mother, I am bonded to Geralt of Rivia. If not physically, then psychically … circumstantially,” Jaskier forced out, adrenaline temporarily overcoming the symptoms of his heat. “You may separate me from him at your own peril, for Destiny has spoken in our favor.” Jaskier swallowed. “In everything I am, I was made for Geralt. Giving me to another will result in naught but disaster.” 

The hushed muttering in the crowd told him that they were buying it, especially Sir Dedrogo, who seemed watery on the scheme in the first place.

“Shut _up_!” Otirt clamped a damp hand over Jaskier’s mouth. “Your Majesty—” 

“Take your hand off of him or lose it.” Geralt bared his teeth, his long blade hovering above Otirt’s elbow. Guards in every corner assumed a defensive stance. 

King Belohun put his head in his hand, sighing. “All this fuss for an _Omega_.” He waved off his guards, turning to Geralt and saying, more annoyed for being put in the position to say this the second time. “Take your bride and go.”


	7. Chapter 7

“That … speech.” Jaskier panted, desperate to force out this point before he descended wholly into heat and started, perhaps, rubbing himself up against Geralt’s body. Even Geralt’s arms around him, carrying him to Roach as fast as he could, felt overstimulating. “I didn’t mean it. I was … just playing to the crowd.” 

Geralt didn’t answer, too busy hefting Jaskier up into the saddle and sliding behind him, urging Roach into a run like he expected everyone to realize they had made a mistake and ride after him with a full army. 

“As if I was _made_ for you,” Jaskier scoffed. “Who is _made_ for someone else. I am not a croissant—” He shut his mouth abruptly, suddenly realizing that he should be angry at Geralt. But surely Geralt coming to save him was at least equal to an apology? And no one _this_ good-smelling deserved to be ignored ... 

If the heat got much worse, Jaskier imagined, he would be emitting steam from his pores. Already, his clothes felt damp and heavy, the fine, expensive fabric scraping like sackcloth across his sensitive skin. Jaskier swallowed, and swallowed again, struggling not to rub his cock against the hard leather saddle between his thighs.

Jaskier turned to press his face to the side of Geralt’s neck, but miscalculated and hit him in the nose instead. 

“ _Fuck_! Jaskier!” Geralt’s pain seemed to sober them both for a minute, as did Roach stumbling abruptly. They tumbled off onto the side of the dirt road and onto the long grass. Jaskier gasped as he was pulled into Geralt’s arms, jostled but not injured as they fell roughly on Geralt’s side. 

When the sky had stopped spinning, Jaskier found himself under Geralt, in a position he’d fantasized about many times, though immediately regretted experiencing this as nothing could ever again measure up to Geralt’s sturdy weight, the soft strands of his hair on Jaskier’s cheeks, his breath on his neck …

Geralt shook himself like a dog sluicing water from his fur, backing away from Jaskier and pushing himself shakily into a standing position. 

“The inn is two hours away,” Geralt growled. “We best keep going.”

Jaskier cradled his stomach, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. The sky was starting to spin again. “I don’t think I can make it.” 

“I can’t stay here,” Geralt said, his voice like gravel, backing away as he looked around himself with quick, paranoid motions. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “But I can’t leave you alone.” 

Jaskier struggled to draw in an entire breath. He felt physically bereft, his skin too tight, his heart too heavy. He crawled across the grass to Geralt, pulling himself up to kneeling shakily. He was face-to-face with Geralt’s cock, a thick bulge against the front of his leather trousers, oozing with Alpha musk that made Jaskier salivate in his mouth. 

“Maybe,” Jaskier said, fully ready to regret this tomorrow. He was close to begging. “Maybe we could help each other.” 

“We can’t.” Geralt said, low in his throat, as Jaskier rubbed a thumb against the curve of his hipbone.

“Doesn’t ‘ve to change anything,” Jaskier pressed his face against Geralt’s bound cock, scent-marking it like a cat. His fingers scrabbled clumsily at the buttons. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.” 

Lie. Lie. 

“It _hurts_.” Jaskier whispered, pressing his forehead against Geralt’s thigh. 

Truth. 

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt sighed, and Jaskier couldn’t parse the resignation from the fondness in his tone. He opened the button on his pants, releasing the most beautiful Alpha cock Jaskier had ever seen, flush-pink and arching towards his abdomen. 

Below that cock hung a half-swollen knot. Jaskier’s ass clenched as he imagined it plugging him up, filling him to bursting, pressing so _perfectly_ against his aching prostate. He’d never let an Alpha do that to him before. He was willing to beg for Geralt’s.

With an eager noise, Jaskier grasped Geralt’s cock and popped it into his mouth. The head was as large as a plum, requiring Jaskier’s entire concentration to pleasure as he sucked slow and hard, drool slicking down Geralt’s length. 

With both hands, Jaskier played with Geralt’s balls, heavy and swollen with spend. Jaskier lowered his mouth and laved Geralt’s knot with his tongue, feeling it swell against his lips. 

Geralt pulled him off abruptly. Jaskier’s hole throbbed and dribbled a drop of slick as Geralt lowered himself to eye-level. Geralt’s eyes were bright yellow, his teeth gritted. Jaskier felt like a prey animal with its pulse under a predator’s fangs. The scent of crushed grass filled the air as Geralt pushed him down and followed close behind.

Jaskier clasped Geralt’s nape as they kissed—a needy, wet smashing of mouths as they divested what was left of their clothing. 

When Geralt saw the bruises on Jaskier’s body he paused. It wasn’t something Jaskier wanted questions about right now so he leaned forward to bite at Geralt’s neck, tasting Geralt’s pulse under his tongue as he sucked a childish lover’s mark onto Geralt’s skin.

When Geralt reached below and pushed a finger into his ass, Jaskier gasped—and then screamed as Geralt followed that with two more.

“F— _fuck!_ ” Jaskier shouted, trembling violently as he came, clenching down on Geralt’s fingers. 

Geralt licked the spend off Jaskier’s chest like it was sweet cream, biting one, then the other nipple as Jaskier thrashed. 

Jaskier had about thirty sweet seconds of relief, his muscles relaxing, melting into the dirt as he finally got a full breath in his lungs. His perception of the world widened to normal, and he was struck by the bars of pink in the sky. The threads of clouds in the distance. The first dew of dawn on his skin.

Then the heat returned and Jaskier was clinging to Geralt, lapping the sweat from his neck and screwing his hole down onto Geralt’s fingers. He kept trying to slow down, commit this moment to memory, _commit this feeling to memory for self-comfort when this was over, when Geralt leaves—_ , but he couldn’t stop rubbing himself against Geralt, tearfully demanding his cock. 

Geralt pushed Jaskier down, face forward into the dew-damp grass. Jaskier’s ass felt _gaping_ , empty, needy to be filled. When he felt Geralt’s fingers again he nearly cried. 

“I don’t know how to put this clearer,” Jaskier twisted around, gasping, “I’m asking to be _fucked_. By your _cock_. The one between your _legs_.” 

Geralt squeezed his knot, grimacing. His eyes were bright and slitted yellow, which Jaskier realized, mournfully, he was developing quite the fetish for. 

Though Geralt did not say it, Jaskier could hear it. _If I fuck you, I’ll knot you and claim you._

At that moment, Jaskier would have done anything for it. 

“Press your thighs together,” Geralt said gruffly, slicking his cock with Jaskier’s juices and moving to line up behind him. Jaskier wished that Geralt would cover his body with his own, but Geralt leaned back instead, his spine making an arc against the early sky. 

Jaskier groaned as he felt Geralt’s thick cock press across the rim of his aching hole, across his taint, to the vulnerable, soft space between his thighs. He sobbed when Geralt began to thrust, because this was worse than denial, it was a _tease_. A tease of what it would feel like if Geralt fucked him. A tease of what it would feel like if Geralt were his Alpha, had claimed him and made Jaskier his own. A tease of what it would feel like if Geralt _loved_ —

Jaskier didn’t remember what he was shouting when Geralt came, or if Geralt had said anything in reply. 

——

He had put his hands on Jaskier. 

Geralt rubbed his face, looking at Jaskier sprawled, unconscious, beside him. Morning to late-noon to near-evening again, they had rolled across the field, pleasuring each other in every way but the one act that Jaskier begged so messily for, half-delirious with heat as he pressed his wet face to Geralt’s shoulder. It had taken every scrap of control in Geralt not to bury his swollen knot in Jaskier’s ass and tie them together. 

If Witchers could not Rut, could not fall in love, then what was he feeling? 

He had taken advantage of Jaskier’s condition to satisfy his lust. Not only his heat but his … feelings. The warmth of his regard. Geralt had always known of it, felt it, and longed to bask under it while knowing that he deserved nothing of the kind. 

Knowing that Jaskier would be irritated if he was sticky when he awoke, Geralt wet a clean rag from the canteen and wiped down Jaskier’s body, especially gentle with the green-purple bruises and rope burns. He had memorized the scents of the three smugglers. If ever he was in the vicinity of any of them again, Geralt would enjoy removing them from this earth. 

Roach was where they had left her, irritably nibbling grass at the bottom of a tree. Geralt had to apologize for leaving her before she would deign to follow him, allowing him to retrieve camp blankets and rolls to wrap Jaskier in. 

Just before dark, Geralt managed to start a fire. 

_I was made for Geralt._

Geralt shook his head, settling across the fire from Jaskier. “You were made for better,” he muttered. “But you’re stuck with me.” 

He could have bonded Jaskier. Jaskier had been panting for it in the moment, and while he may have mixed feelings when he awoke coherent, at least Geralt could keep him safe. But Geralt knew that he would never be able to watch Jaskier disappear with other lovers while wearing _his_ mark. They would break apart eventually.

Geralt’s arm prickled with pain from the deep bites he’d given himself, over and over, to avoid sinking his teeth into Jaskier’s nape. He’d bandaged himself up, but dots of blood seeped through the cloth. 

Jaskier, who sang of highwaymen with golden eyes and lovers dancing among the stars ... Jaskier deserved the opportunity for a true bond. 

Geralt just had to hide his obvious, painful regard until then. 

——

Jaskier drifted awake, alone, and sore in a few unpleasant ways. 

“You’re awake,” Geralt said from across the fire. He seemed further away than he had ever been, his expression distant and guarded. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh where do I begin?” Jaskier said, forcing a lightness into his voice he did not feel. “There’s the wrench in my shoulder, from being manhandled hither and thither for two days. These lovely rope burns … and of course this,” he shrugged off the blankets, gesturing to his naked abdomen. “Fortunately nothing that’ll leave a scar. And they do say the best revenge is to write a disparaging song about those who wronged you.” He didn’t mention the rawness of his ass and thighs, or the paradoxical … _ache_ in his lower stomach, of a heat unfulfilled. “ _Oh what wouldn’t you give for a Witcher tonight / When brigand way-lays you and ties you up tight /those bastards didn’t know that hot on their trails / was a man thirsty for vengeance and also some ale …_ ”

Jaskier trailed off weakly, waiting for Geralt to respond with some pithy comment, signalling that everything was alright. To give Jaskier confirmation that they could both go on pretending that nothing had happened. 

But he couldn’t even give Jaskier that luxury. They sat in silence for a full minute. 

“Well, I can workshop that.” Jaskier said quietly, wishing that looking at Geralt’s grim expression didn’t keep bringing up memories of Geralt, barging into the throne room with teeth bared and swords drawn, calling Jaskier _his_. Geralt, with shining yellow eyes, holding Jaskier tightly as he writhed in pleasure and denial. 

_If I fuck you, I’ll knot you and claim you._

Jaskier’s eyes flickered to Geralt’s bandaged arm, the clean, comfortable nest that Geralt had made him—and it was most definitely a nest, whether he was aware of it or not. 

“I take back what I previously took back.” Jaskier said quickly. “I meant everything I said in the throne room.” 

“That Destiny’s in our favor?” Geralt grunted. “Unlikely.” 

Jaskier shook his head. “That I’m yours. Stupid bite or not.” He slid his legs out of the blanket, noting when Geralt’s eyes flickered. “You can yell at me all you want, but I’ll be following your stubborn ass to my dying day. Which will most likely be far before your ass gets saggy—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt sounded pained, “I can’t. I have … nothing for you.”

“I know you like me.” Jaskier said cheerfully, throwing off the blankets completely and immediately regretting it as the cold air hit his skin. Hopefully Geralt had some clothes he could borrow, because he would rather go naked than put on that damnable betrothal suit again. “I shall wear you down, like a river does a stone, until you admit your regard for me.” Jaskier wrapped one blanket around his shoulders and walked around the fire to sit next to Geralt. “I can be very patient.” 

Geralt snorted. “I’ve yet to witness that.” 

“I shall snarl at all competitors.” Jaskier mimed a cat’s roar with his mouth and hands. “I shall warn them that this man is my bondmate, he’s just not aware of it yet. Eventually your sexual frustration will allow you to succumb to my charms.” 

Geralt shook his head, looking to the sky. “Why do you want me to claim you, Jaskier? To test my control? To prove to yourself that I’m just as bad as all those other Alphas ... who couldn’t keep my hands off of you the first chance I got—” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Do you think that this can last? Once they spit on you and pity you in equal measures for being tied to an unfeeling—” 

“Disputable.”

“Penniless—” 

“Less disputable.” 

“ _Witcher._ ” 

Jaskier laughed shortly, shaking his head. “Only one of us seems concerned with that.” 

“I’m trying to spare you,” Geralt growled, but in the manner that Jaskier had learned implied resignation. 

“I’m lucid.” Jaskier said, clumsily crawling into Geralt’s lap, distracting his protests by kissing them out of his mouth. Jaskier felt as if he were perched on the edge of a cliff, trembling in the thin, open air. “I want you to fuck me.” 

The words sent a shudder down Geralt’s body, and Jaskier felt a swell of power, making this man _want_. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” Geralt said roughly. 

“Fuck me, knot me, claim me.” Jaskier said dreamily, startling back as Geralt suddenly rolled them onto the ground. Geralt braced Jaskier with strong arms, pushing forward to take Jaskier’s mouth in a rough kiss. 

Jaskier pushed into it eagerly, grinding down onto Geralt’s lap as he matched lips and tongues and teeth. 

“Do you know what it would be like? To be a Witcher’s bondmate?” Geralt breathed against Jaskier’s mouth. His hands spanned Jaskier’s narrow hips, pulling him into a rough rhythm that punished them both. Jaskier moaned as he felt the width of Geralt’s hard cock through his breeches, his hole slickening in anticipation. 

“Better than a free Omega that everyone thinks of as your plaything already.” Jaskier said, his fingers pulling at Geralt’s laces. “Better than a free Omega that smells of you, who fucks himself through his heats biting your shirts.” 

Geralt’s eyes darkened and he released his breath like it had been punched out of him. “You will be my ruin.” he said, pressing his forehead against Jaskier’s. 

Jaskier kissed Geralt greedily, unable to get enough of him, barely willing to separate for a moment to tear off his clothes again. Geralt smelled so, _so_ good, his Alpha musk pulsing so strongly Jaskier wondered if it didn’t frighten off the local wildlife. 

“I’ll never be able to give you children.” Geralt said hurriedly as Jaskier pulled off his shirt. 

“And ruin _this_ body?” Jaskier asked, heady with triumph and the taste of Geralt. Jaskier reached behind himself to prod at his entrance and found it soft, needy and slick. He rubbed himself against Geralt’s bobbing cock, whining when Geralt said, “wait.” 

“Regrets are supposed to come after the consummation,” Jaskier said thickly, but Geralt simply pushed him onto his front, kneeling between his spread thighs and _oh_.

Jaskier startled at the first press of Geralt’s tongue against his entrance, tender and apologetic as it lapped over his sore flesh. Jaskier gasped, his fingers twisting in the grass as he was taken apart by Geralt’s hot mouth and his roughened fingers, cupping Jaskier’s leaking cock. 

Jaskier canted his hips back, sobbing as he fucked against Geralt’s tongue. But it wasn’t _enough_. 

“Jaskier.” He heard Geralt say, and rolled onto his back to see Geralt on his knees, framed in the flickering firelight as he stroked his thick Alpha cock. Jaskier figured that he must have been the perfect picture of Omega submission, lips kissed-bruised and thighs spayed open, _panting_ for it. But Geralt’s expression wasn’t one of satisfaction or domination. He looked at Jaskier like he was something _precious_ , something Geralt couldn’t believe he had the permission to touch. And Jaskier realized that he must be the first Omega that Geralt had ever fucked. 

He opened his arms and Geralt fell into him.

The first push of Geralt’s cock made Jaskier hiss. He was tight despite the prior play and Geralt was … considerable. After the initial burn, however, Jaskier started to shudder with pleasure, a _pressure_ that pooled in his lower belly and made his eyes roll back in his head. He sank his nails into Geralt’s ass, urging him to go faster, _faster_ as Geralt continued his damnably slow first thrust. Jaskier thought that he might have been drooling. It didn’t matter. He felt stretched to bursting, surrounded by Geralt, enveloped by him—Geralt’s cock in his ass, his tongue in his mouth, his musk was the only thing that Jaskier could smell, his sweat the only thing he could taste. 

Geralt rolled his hips and Jaskier cried out, wrapping his legs around Geralt’s hips. “Oh fuck,” he moaned against Geralt’s shoulder. “Oh … _oh_.” 

“Eloquent.” Geralt forced out, and Jaskier wanted to warn him that he had many stanzas already composed about the sexual prowess of Witchers he was happy to distribute, but instead he said,

“Fuck me from behind so you can bite me.” 

“ _Shit_ ,” Geralt’s eyes flashed yellow. “Don’t say that if you want me to last.” 

From behind, Geralt was rougher, finally giving Jaskier the fuck he’d been panting for since he first saw Geralt framed in the door of Petrelsteyn, the thunder at his back and electricity in his eyes. Jaskier hung his head between his arms, feeling the sweat drip rivlets down his neck, the side of his face, off the tip of his nose. He felt Geralt’s firm palm against his lower stomach, thumbing his belly button as he _pressed_. And Jaskier suddenly felt Geralt’s knot pop, swelling until Jaskier was trembling all over, sobbing as Geralt dragged his tongue against the back of Jaskier’s neck. The sudden pain of Geralt’s teeth sent Jaskier over the edge, his legs collapsing as he spent in the grass. 

Luckily, they’d fucked near the nest of clothes and blankets Geralt had constructed earlier, and Jaskier was more than happy to be coddled as was befitting an Omega, carried to the softest part of nest, pillowed in Geralt’s arms and luxuriating in their tie. 

“Ow!” Jaskier said, flinching as he felt Geralt’s thumb brush against the bite on his nape. 

“Sorry,” Geralt murmured, and ran his tongue over the marks. Jaskier could also anticipate _that_ becoming a fetish. 

“Oh yeah, before I forget,” Jaskier said sleepily, nuzzling into the crook of Geralt’s elbow. “I love you.” 

Jaskier fell asleep before he heard Geralt’s answer properly, but it might have been something like “you’d better”, then, much softer, “me too”. That night, Jaskier dreamt that they were outlaws galloping into the setting twilight, breathless and passionate and free.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](https://greyduckgreygoose.tumblr.com/).


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